


Blood Looks Black in the Moonlight

by buckywlnchester



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013)
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute, Spacedogs, Spacedogs Appreciation Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckywlnchester/pseuds/buckywlnchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A groan of pain and a curse word he’s never heard before outside of those movies he never told dad about, however, sends him walking closer to the man. The closer he gets, the more he realizes just how much blood the man is covered in, black splashes splayed out on his hands and brightly colored shirt. </p><p>Adam is definitely not prepared for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's Spacedogs Appreciation Week so I thought I'd try my hand at a little Nigel and Adam au. This fic is two parts and hopefully I'll have part two up by tomorrow.

The night air is crisp as he walks through the park, early October autumn cutting through the thin jacket he’s wearing. He had planned to stay inside, to look through his telescope and code until the clock read ten and it was time for bed. But as he gazed at the constellations mapped out through his telescope’s lens, he suddenly couldn’t bear to be inside any longer, cooped up looking at the stars from the security of his apartment. In a brief moment of only what Adam could describe as reckless, he grabbed his jacket and laced his shoes, phone in hand as he headed for the park next to his apartment.

He’s glad he decided to leave the house. It’s the first time in a couple days. He’d went to the grocery store on Monday, but got so muddled by the noise and smells he forgot to buy more tea bags. He’d been cooped up, coding some new experimental software since then.

The night air tickles his nose. His hands are bound up toasty in his mittens that the weather doesn’t call for, but he likes. He likes the soft, fuzzy material smoothing against his palm every time he flexes his fingers. The leaves fallen by the earlier rain storm under his shoes make delightful crunches with every step he takes.

Overall, it’s a pretty good night to take a walk in the park.

He finds the bench, the one he and his dad used to sit on during their walks through the park. Sitting down, he lets his head rest against the back of the bench, face up as he takes in the stars. They’re always prettier here than by his apartment, the light pollution not so apparent under the trees of the massive park. Actually, it’s pretty dark here, the nearest streetlight a good quarter mile away. He doesn’t mind though since the stars are so bright and vibrant on this gorgeous autumnal night.

He’s searching, already found and named all the stars in the Big and Little Dipper, when he hears a noise. At first, he takes no notice, too wrapped up in the vast space above him to pay any head to what’s happening down around him on earth. But finally, after what he thinks is the thirteenth curse word in the past minute, he sits up, searching for the sound.

It doesn’t take him long to identify the noise. Just in front of him, a man is slumped against a tree, curse after curse spilling off his lips. He’s holding his side, Adam notes. It takes him a while to figure out what’s happening, the dim streetlights and stars not doing much to illuminate the man under the tree. He cautiously gets up, debating about whether or not he should just turn around and walk back home as fast as possible. A groan of pain and a curse word he’s never heard before outside of those movies he never told dad about, however, sends him walking closer to the man. The closer he gets, the more he realizes just how much blood the man is covered in, black splashes splayed out on his hands and brightly colored shirt.

Adam is definitely not prepared for this.

 

***

 

Of all the places on the fucking planet that Nigel could die, some fucking fancy ass park in the middle of Manhattan was not on top of that goddamn list. It was supposed to be an easy job. A simple in and out robbery. He’d keep sixty percent of the cash flow, and everything was gonna be fucking peachy.

But of course, he works with a bunch of idiots. So why the fuck he thought that everything would go smoothly is beyond him.

Instead, the guy who scouted the place failed to note the patrol car that made its way by the factory every night. And of fucking course the robbery took place just as the patrol car made its way by the building and of fucking course the officers just had to be on their game.

And now he’s sitting in the middle of a fucking park with a 9 mm round lodged in his side, dying in the middle of New York fucking City of all places. He’s starting to think the life of crime he’s lead isn’t worth dying on American soil. Not that he has anything against Americans, but in a general consensus, fuck America. The grand ole U S of fucking A wasn’t doing him any favors tonight.

“That’s blood,” he hears out of nowhere. He looks up and is greeted by the sight of a mop of dark curls and bright blue eyes staring down at him.  

“No fucking shit,” he snarls, because he doesn’t care if this kid looks like a fucking angel, he’s bleeding out in a pile of goddamn leaves and he won’t apologize for fucking anything.

“You should go to the doctor. My dad took me to the doctor when I sliced open my arm with the exacto knife. I was trying to cut out these pictures of Jupiter’s moons, Io, Europa, Ganymede, Callisto and all the others, but I wasn’t supposed to be using the exacto knife. But I did and then I sliced my arm open, I still have a scar. And my dad took me to the doctor’s and I got stitches which weren’t fun but dad took me out for ice cream afterwards so that was cool.” And Jesus H. Fucking Christ, if Nigel isn’t enamored by that. Or, he thinks he would be, that is if he weren’t currently bleeding out in front of this kid who is easily fifteen years younger than him who won’t shut the fuck up about his arm.

“No fucking doctors. No hospitals. Just gonna bleed out here, if you don’t fucking mind.” And now this kid is just staring at him, just goddamn staring at him with those wide, blue eyes. He guesses if he’s gotta go, this isn’t such a bad sight to leave with.

“Well if you don’t want to go to the doctors, then you can come over to my place. I just live right over there. I have a first aid kit. And a washer, since your shirt is all bloody. It’s a pretty shirt, there’s just so many colors, that’s how I saw you, because it’s so dark you know. But your shirt is bright so I saw you.” And if Nigel isn’t dumbfounded now. This pretty little thing is offering up his home and, god forbid, his washing machine.

“Guess that beats dying in the fucking park,” he replies without thinking. “Fucking help me up then. Not sure if I can walk on my own.” And this kid, this gorgeous fucking angel does, offering his mitted hand – he’s wearing mittens for fuck’s sake – and pulling him out of the pile of leaves. He tucks the kid under the crook of his arm, leaning on him as they start to walk back to the kid’s place. He didn’t look so small looking down at Nigel, but now that he’s standing, he’s struck by just how much smaller the kid is. Still, he’s dragging Nigel along like it ain’t no fucking issue, so it doesn’t matter much. This fucking little angel just guides him along under the streetlamps without a moment’s hesitation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I lied. This fic will now have three parts. 
> 
> Can you guys tell that I love writing Nigel? On a daily basis I curse just as much as he does, so writing him is cathartic.

The man is in the bathroom. The man with the colorful shirt and even more colorful language is using his wash cloth to clean the blood from his gunshot wound. In his bathroom. This is why he stays in his apartment most of the time.

The man’s shirt is soaking in the sink, cold water and soap hopefully leaching out the blood before the stain sets. He’s sitting on the couch, listening to the curses from the bathroom, hoping the man won’t ask him for any assistance.

It’s past his usual bed time now. His sweater that once felt soft now feels stifling on his skin. His routine is off kilter up, altered by this strange man covered in blood and a colorful shirt. His mind keeps telling him he needs to go to bed or he’ll be tired in the morning, his entire day tomorrow thrown off by this man he met in the park.

In hindsight, inviting a strange man into his home under such circumstances probably was not the best course of action. He’s so bad at reading situations like this, situations that involve foresight into another person’s mind. For all he knows this man could be a murderer, an assassin, and he’s currently in his bathroom.

He goes into the kitchen, deciding that if he won’t be able to sleep soon, he could at least make tea to calm his nerves. He needs something to do with his hands, something to occupy his thoughts until this storm settles. He picks out a bag of floral, herbal tea, steeping it in his rocket ship mug, dunking it in rhythm with his heart beat. He counts each dunk, forced to start over every time a curse from the bathroom interrupts his concertation.

This could be a long night.

 

***

 

Well this fucking sucks, Nigel thinks, wiping the excess blood from his wound. The bleeding has slowed for the most part. It was a clean through and through, just along the outside left of his abdomen right below his ribs. Nothing important appears to be hit, just lots and lots of fucking blood.

He uses the first aid kit that the little angel had left for him on the counter. A fuck load of gauze and bandages will hopefully keep the bleeding at bay until he can get back to his hideout in the Bronx. Once he wipes all the blood away, he sterilizes the wound and wraps his abdomen probably more than necessary. Not that he would know. He’s never been fucking shot before. Stabbed, gotten the shit beat out of him, well yeah. That’s all part of the job. But he’s never been shot by a police grade fucking 9mm before. Fucking hell.

He fishes his soaked shirt out of the sink. There’s no way in hell he can walk around fucking Manhattan without a goddamn shirt on, especially with his stomach bandaged to shit. He’d be sure to gain some unwanted attention that way. But he can’t call one of the guys. Doesn’t want them to know where he is, where this kid lives. That’d just be the fucking icing on this shit covered cake.

This angel has been nothing but nice to him. Naïve as fuck, sure, but Nigel won’t fault him there, not when it’s working out to his benefit. He drains the sink, turning on the cold water to wash out the rest of the blood from his shirt. His movement is limited, his left side not working like he wants it to, but it’s good enough. After the majority of the blood has been washed down the drain, he hangs it over the toilet, willing it to dry faster than he knows it will.

Clean, blood-free, and bandaged, he makes his way out of the bathroom. He’s struck into stillness for a moment as he enters the living room, seeing the beautiful kid who’s gone through so much trouble to help him sitting on the couch, feet tucked under him with a mug of tea. He’s a fucking beatific vision if Nigel’s ever seen one.

“What’s your name, angel?” Nigel startles the poor kid, he mustn’t have heard him leave the bathroom. He stares up at Nigel like a goddamn frightened deer, like how after all this shit, he still doesn’t trust Nigel. Smartest fucking thing the kid has done all night.

“Um, Adam. My name is Adam.” And if that isn’t a fucking fitting name for his angel. He thinks back to the Sunday school lessons he remembers, the bitchy nuns going on and on about the first man Adam and his sins. He thinks that Adam has nothing on this angel. What sins could this kid commit? And who could ever sin against this kid? Make those perfect pouty lips turn down in displeasure? Fucking hell.

“Well Adam, I’m Nigel. And I guess I owe you thanks for not letting me bleed out in the fucking park.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Wide blue eyes question, betraying nothing but complete sincerity. And if that wasn’t fucking something.

“Yeah, angel, I’ll be fine. I’ll just grab my shirt and leave.”

“Um, wait. Here,” Adam says, springing up off the couch and heading into some unknown room. He comes back with a blue button up, a tad bit small for Nigel, but nonetheless. “This is, well was, my dad’s. Here, you can wear it since your shirt is wet.” He smiles up at Nigel, all sweet and innocent, and fuck if that doesn’t just do it for Nigel.

“Thanks darling. Thanks.” He takes the shirt, buttoning it up as he makes his way to the bathroom to grab his shirt. Adam is sitting on the couch again in the same position as before, feet curled under him and mug steaming in his hand. “I’ll just see myself out then.” He reluctantly makes his way to the door.

“Okay, bye Nigel.” Nigel lingers with the door agape, staring at the gorgeous mop of curls and blue eyes staring at him in earnest.

“Yeah, okay angel. Bye.” The click of the door behind him has a finality to it, not that he can blame it. It’s colder than it was before, as he makes his way out into the street. Ominous thunder makes itself known as he tries to track down a taxi, too preoccupied with bright, blue eyes to have any luck.

“Fucking Adam. Christ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come fangirl with me about spacedogs and hannigram over at [my tumblr](http://cptnbuckybarnes.tumblr.com)


End file.
